


A cure for wellness

by asuralucier



Category: You (TV 2018)
Genre: Aftermath of Shared Trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Codependency, Creepy Gal Pals, Dubious Consent, F/F, POV Second Person, Paris (City), Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: You are loved.(AU after S1 Episode 06: “Amour Fou” - the one where Beck kills Joe to defend Peach, and things don’t exactly get better.)
Relationships: Guinevere Beck/Peach Salinger
Comments: 11
Kudos: 109
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	A cure for wellness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> My thanks to ictus for just being the best beta ever!

It’s hard work, pulling the trigger of a gun. Doubly so for you: you hate guns, even as an idea.

But you manage somehow, because you had to. You _had_ to.

You might have blacked out after that. You’re not sure.

All you know is that, when you’re conscious again, Peach is there, leaning very close to you. She pats your hair, and you can’t help but stare at the ugly dark bruising pattern over her throat – about as wide as someone’s arm. Joe’s arm. You touch it, and she winces, but mostly, Peach just looks fucking _grateful_.

Peach’s lips are close to your ear, and words are there, tangled up with shallow breathing: “You’re back, Beck. You came back. You saved my life.”

You did. You saved somebody’s life. If you tell yourself that, things are okay. Okay. You even say it out loud, “Okay.”

You smell her hair, and feel her shaking bones in your hands. But things _aren’t_ okay, if “okay” were a planet, you’re not even in the same galaxy as planet “okay.”

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

After it happens, Peach doesn’t call the cops.

Instead, Peach calls Ross, a guy who shows up about an hour later in a dark blue Ford. He parks in the middle of the wide driveway and you think that maybe Ross used to be a cop. Whatever the case, he looks like he’s used to trouble, and that’s a good thing, right? If Ross is used to trouble, it means he’s got plenty of experience getting out of trouble. And that’s what you need right now.

(Actually, you’re not so sure it’s an hour. Everything’s feeling a bit muddy, not real, like you’re coming down from some psychoactive.)

Come to think of it, you did take a psychoactive last night. Mandy. Opium. You went to Crazytown. You wonder if this is blowback, the comedown making you lose your head, but you’re pretty sure you didn’t hallucinate the gun in the grass, or Joe’s face being–

Peach takes Ross around to where it’d all happened, and you begin to follow them. After all, you’re the one responsible for all this, but you can’t move.

Peach suggests you go inside. (“The air stinks out here, can’t you smell it? Come inside, Beckles.”) And you follow. Peach doesn’t always know what she wants, but she knows what she wants when it comes to _you_. And you’ve never thought to be grateful for that sort of thing, but you are.

“Let’s try this again, all right?” Ross looks steadily at you. It’s a little like falling into a dark, bottomless hole. You’ll have to try your best not to let it get to you.

He tries to smile, and doesn’t quite succeed. You get the feeling that Ross isn’t the nicest guy, but then, he’s hardly paid to be nice. He’s paid, you think, to be exactly the opposite. “I want you to take a deep breath, drink some water, clear your head. We have to try this again. Do you understand? All of this has got to be airtight. There’s a guy with his face blown off out there. It’s–”

Preach says, very sharply, “ _Ross_.”

Ross shrugs. “We just got to be careful how it looks.”

You nod somehow, feeling invisible strings yoke you at the back of your neck, telling you what to do. You can’t really breathe.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Beck?” Peach touches your wrist, her perfectly manicured nails spread over your skin. Peach has always had flawless skin, even now, especially now. There are three long scratch marks, each about a couple of inches long, torn across the back of her hand. Deep, like somebody (Joe, who is dead out in the backyard by the pool) dug in his nails, trying to live.

“Beck, breathe. We’re taking five.” That was to you, and then to Ross. Things are easier, if you take your time breaking it down. Peach is calling your name again, “Beck?”

You say, “Yeah. Yes. Sounds great.”

Ross says, “I’d like to call the police. The sooner we get this sorted out, the better it’ll look. We can keep it quiet.”

Peach says, “Of course, we’ll keep it quiet. Just look at her, poor thing.” Her fingers are now snaking their way up your arm, as if she knows you’re on the cusp of falling apart and she wants so badly to hold you together. It’s never been in a way that you really understand, but you know she must mean well. “Come on, Beckish. Five minutes.”

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

For round two with Ross, you don’t feel better, but you feel...better. You’re even armed with a mug of honey and chamomile tea, for stress. The mug is nearly the size of your face. Ross says, “Let’s go over it again, you called an Uber around what time?”

“I don’t know,” you say, “it’s all a bit of a blur.”

“We were going to get brunch at Hallasey’s.” Peach nudges you. “Must have been eleven-thirty, maybe a little before.”

“Let’s go with that,” Ross says, “a little after eleven. Okay?”

“A little after eleven,” you repeat. “Okay. Actually. I called an Uber. That should be timestamped on my phone, right?”

Ross holds out his hand. “Let me see.” It doesn't surprise you that he doesn't say "please."

You hand over your phone, like some sort of Victorian idiot. You watch him scroll, and then he looks at you again, “...Why did you call an Uber? Says here you wanted the driver to take you back into the city.”

“I,” you start, “I was just.” Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you try to remember. You and Peach have said a lot to each other recently, but none of that is important now.

“I remember.” Peach touches your hand again. “You were going to pick up something at your apartment, right? We changed our minds last minute, didn’t we, Beck? We were going to brunch in the city.”

Ross doesn’t look convinced, but then he hands you back your phone. Stands, and for the first time, you think you know what it’s like to have male aura cramping your healing space. You hate Ross, and you can’t even say why. There’s just something grim and grimy about him. “I’m going to make a few calls. Sit tight.”

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

The aftermath of Joe Goldberg’s death on the Salingers’ Greenwich estate is anything but quiet.

Peach is a Salinger. What this means is that things happen to her a lot. She might accuse you of making drama out of nothing, but she’s the real expert in living dramatically. This–having a stalker, who just happens to be your boyfriend (ex-boyfriend, since he’s dead; you shot him)–becomes another thing that happens.

Except this time, it’s happening to you, too.

You’re in this together. You attend most of your interviews together and you let Peach pick your outfits about seventy percent of the time because all you can think about is how not to faint. Besides, Peach would never let you look bad on television, YouTube, the cover of _People_ , or in the office of some hotshot editor who works for Random House.

“...How does summer next year sound? We don’t want to rush this, of course, but it’s so _topical_. And of course we’re really interested in helping you girls tell your story.”

“Next summer’s fine. Let’s talk about an advance,” Peach says. Her hand is on your knee. She’s always touching you now. It’s how you wake up.

“A what?” Nowadays, you always feel like you’ve only just woken up. You’re sitting on an ergonomic couch that’s catering to your bad posture. The hotshot editor’s office is on a floor that’s so high it makes you dizzy to think of it. There’s coffee and something crumbly and buttery on your tongue. The dress you’re wearing is this side of too tight and you can’t comfortably cross your legs.

It doesn’t just happen. It fucking snowballs.

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

Peach calls Annika and Lynn with the good news.

You feel like you’ve gone back to sleep again. There’s a check for eighty thousand dollars in your purse. Any minute now, you think you might get robbed. You’re standing in the middle of Broadway with _eighty thousand dollars_. It’s enough to pay your tuition and then some for the year. You need a new laptop.

And then you remember that you haven't gone to class for at least two weeks. Maybe more. There simply hasn’t been enough time in your life for that now. You haven't even checked your e-mail and you used to be obsessed. Addicted.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” Peach looks at you expectantly. She holds out her hand, the one that used to have a scratch on it, but now it’s barely noticeable. You take it. It’s familiar and safe. She sometimes puts concealer on it. (“Oh _please_ , I’m not going to play the victim.”)

You decide you’re not either. But sometimes you still wake up in the middle of the night and rush to the bathroom to throw up food you didn’t eat. And then Peach finds you, pets your hair, tells you _it’s all right, Beck, I’m going to take you to brunch. Come back to bed._

“Is this for _real_ ,” you say. “Did we just. Did I just. Walk out of one of the biggest publishing houses in the world with a _book deal_. Peach, this isn’t. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen to me.”

Peach is still looking at you, her expression a little bit in-between places. It’s the kind of thing that makes you think _she’s in love with you_ , except the voice that's still there in your head and worming its way into your synapses isn’t yours. It’s the voice of a dead man.

_”You know she’s in love with you.”_

It’s ridiculous and suddenly, it isn’t.

“Come back to me, Becklish. It freaks me out when you go places.” Peach tucks your hand just inside of her elbow and holds on tight. “Come on, Annika and Lynn said they’d meet us.”

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

Your world gets bigger and smaller and Peach is at its center.

It’s not even that weird anymore, for you to crawl into bed with Peach and smell her shampoo. It’s the mellow scent of honeydew and aloe and her Ativan that puts you to sleep.

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You’re having a bad day. You wake up and all you can taste is grass and gunpowder. You try to throw it up but it hurts so fucking much. It’s like glass has filled your stomach.

The doorknob rattles violently and you try to make yourself smaller. You just about fit in the sliver of space between the toilet and the sink.

“Beck? Beck, darling, unlock the door. Let me in.”

As far as days go, you’ve picked a hell of a day to go on the fritz. You’re meant to be meeting your editor today for bunch, then it’s shopping with Peach until the late afternoon, and then it’s Kimmel in the evening to talk about domestic violence or something. This appearance is last minute and also why you’re going shopping. You’re so, so sick of shopping.

“Beck, let’s talk about this. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She’s meant to be your friend. But Peach still calls you stupid sometimes, when she’s not thinking. Stupid, selfish, self-absorbed. She’s only not thinking because she’s worried about you.

She worries about you.

Finally, you manage to crawl to the door and reach for the lock. Then you shrink back when the door opens, revealing Peach in a red negligee that’s probably more expensive than your entire wardrobe put together, but you’re on the up. It also looks like the kind of thing that you’d wear if you wanted to have sex, but that’s not anything. It's the kind of thing Peach wears all the time. You used to laugh at her for being up for it, in a friendly way, of course.

“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to go shopping. I don’t want to be on TV. I don’t know what’s _wrong with_ –”

“Shh,” Peach kneels next to you and cradles your head on her lap. She strokes your hair the way you’ve grown to like. “It’s okay, stop thinking. Stop talking.”

You hiccup. The sound is ugly and loud and shows you to be exactly the proletariat you are, but Peach doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if she doesn’t _mind_ , and she always minds.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say. “I mean it. I’m sick of it all. I think it’s making me physically sick, Peach.”

“Let’s go to Paris,” Peach says, turning your face towards her. “No TV. No more interviews. But you’ll still have to write the book." At this she laughs, and while you don't like the sound, you're happy that she can still laugh. "You’ll love Inez’s apartment. You can write every day looking at the Seine from your window. I promise you’ll love it.”

“I don’t know what the Seine looks like,” you say; is this what it’s like to be _hysterical?_ If it isn’t, it should be. “I don’t speak French.”

“Don’t be silly, _cherie_ ,” Peach shushes you again, placing a finger against your mouth. You almost form a response, a kiss against her skin. And then the touch is gone. “You know I speak French. Plus everyone in Paris already speaks English. I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is say yes.” She frames your face with both of her hands. "Say yes.”

Recently, things have been happening one after another. You have barely had the time to sit down and breathe. You’ve hardly had time to be alone, either. But you can’t tell why. Maybe it's because you're bad at being alone now. But thankfully, it's not something you have to think too much about because Peach is always there to insist that a negroni fixes depression (only if it costs twenty dollars and negronis à la Peach probably do cost that much). Maybe you do speak a little French, after all.

Point is, Paris doesn't sound crazy anymore. And you know Peach doesn't ask unless she doesn't know what you'll say. It's like you almost have a choice. It's not like before, when she'd just up and said, _we're moving to Paris!_

Things are different now.

"Okay," you say. "Let's go to Paris."

As soon as you've said it, you already feel better.

: ❤️ : ❤️ : ❤️ :

You try to remember if cousin Inez's apartment was always meant to be under renovation; Peach must have told you, but your memory is awful these days. But at least the construction workers, traipsing in and out of the apartment tracking in sawdust and mud at all hours have left the large attic room alone. The two of you sleep on a double mattress under a skylight, and during the day you can see the Seine.

You type: _I am a unremarkable person. Everything around me in my tiny attic room in Paris says that a remarkable person shouldn't be here. I don't sleep much, but I like looking up at the stars at night._ There aren't really stars in the city.

Peach is reading over your shoulder. She's holding book of Richard Siken's poetry; you don't think it's her usual thing, but you suggested it, and so far she hasn't complained.

Where Joe would insist that you're remarkable and that you shouldn't worry about it, Peach doesn't do that. Peach just lets you be yourself. Sometimes, being yourself means that you understand that you aren't what other people want you to be. It's why Peach is your best friend.

"Are you in love with me?"

It's close enough to an old argument that it could get ugly quickly; you brace yourself for it, your thumb running nervously across your touchpad. But Paris is like the ultimate cocktail or the ultimate trip: Peach is different here. Her face doesn't twist in a way that looks for a way out. In a sense, the two of you have done that already. You and Peach have gotten the fuck out. She tucks a stray strand of hair back behind your ear for you. Then she smooths her thumb over

_but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,  
I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s  
as good as anything.  
_

"I want you to know that you are loved, Becklish, that's all. You need that. You need that so much." Peach smiles and you think her lips touched your temple when you weren't really paying attention. But you can't be sure.

Then she leans away from you and crosses her very long legs. These days, Peach doesn't bother changing out of her underwear until it's time to go out. "Type. If you get to the end of page, we can get something to eat. There's this adorable café near Pont des Arts that you have to try. It's one of my favorites."

You nod. "Sounds great."

But at least you know now, that you are loved.


End file.
